Another one bites the dust

By DAVID J. COEHRS

It came out of my mouth before I realized it. And after it did, I froze like a Mrs. Paul's fishstick. Because, as I live and breath, I had once sworn to the heavens that, as a parent, I would never say it:

"Because I said so."

My first reaction afterward was to run to a mirror and examine myself closely - nose, ears, eyes, the whole inventory. My reflection confirmed that I was neither my father nor my mother, and yet that ... that awful thing had come out of my mouth: Because I said so.

What happened was, I had caught the boys vigorously dueling with rusty steel pipes they had found. As they swung them with abandon at each other I could imagine one or both of them walking into the house impaled through the head or chest with twelve inches of metal, saying, "I think I need a Band-Aid."

"Stop that!" I said.

They paused and looked at me like the senile old duffer they think I am.

"Why?" they asked in unison.

And that's when those awful words came out and I stunned myself into silence. Good gravy, I HAD DIPPED INTO THE UNHOLY FONT OF LAME PARENTAL CLICHES!

I may as well have said, "Shut the door - you're letting the heat out," or "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about" or even, "Don't make me come in there!" My parents used all of those on me, and they worked for awhile. But then I became one of those cynical, sarcastic, mouthy, know-it-all teenagers that most adults would pay big money to smack around, and I would cringe at those phrases.

I can distinctly remember the exact moment when I vowed to never to sound like my fuddy-duddy father and mother. I had bopped through the front door well after my curfew, acting jaunty and thinking I was Mr. Hot Skippy On a Stick, when I ran smack into both of them, arms folded and feet tapping.

After grilling me over an open flame (Do you know what TIME it is? Have you LOST YOUR MIND?) my dad, whose face was lost in the clouds of smoke billowing from his ears, uttered that immortal "As long as you're living under my roof" dictum that probably started between dads and sons in prehistoric times. A I slunk to my room under their withering looks, Iicking my wounds and stomping my feet to let them know they hadn't crushed me, I made up my mind. I would never utter any of that trite parentspeak or my name wasn't Mr. Hot Skippy.

Now I have become one of them. The words had escaped and I couldn't take them back. They had probably already floated into the upper atmosphere, where they will bounce around for eternity with previously spoken parental cliches (Settle down right this minute, or I'll turn this car around and we'll go straight home!)

I was going to be the cool dad, Mr. Hot Skippy Dad, who let them bash each other with rusty steel poles and pick their noses in public, and would teach them everything about women they'd never learn anywhere else. And if I heard them use a swear word I'd just wink and say, "Don't let your mother hear you say that, okay pal?"

But now that dream was over. I had said "Because I said so," just the way my parents had said it thousands, if not gazillions, of times during my childhood. And when I said it, I had seen the expression on the boys' faces, the one that said, You're just like all the other dads. And we thought you were going to be hot skippy cool.

As much as I despise the thought, I now carry the legacy of the lame parental cliche. That means I will also have to adopt other lame parental cliches that, until now, I had successfully eluded. I will now have to wear my dad pants all the way up to my chest. I will now have to drive exactly the speed limit and complain about my kids' music. I will now have to bore them with droning lectures about the evils of smoking and drinking and not respecting elders, and about - for heaven's sake - thinking before they speak, and sitting up straight and looking at me when I talk to them, and making good choices when they're hanging around with punks, because, God knows, I did not raise them to act that way.

But wait a minute, a already do all of that. Except for the wearing-my-pants to-my-chest part. I don't think I'd ever get them up over my stomach.